


You Will Be Mine

by vivisextion



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Apparently the legal term is 'unlawful restraint', Blood, Graphic Neck Wound, Hostage Situations, Kidnapping, M/M, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23842045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivisextion/pseuds/vivisextion
Summary: Corey stalks the object of his obsession before abducting and holding him captive in the basement of his rural farmhouse. Based on the movie 'The Collector (1965)', which in turn inspired the song 'Prosthetics'.
Relationships: Joey Jordison/Corey Taylor
Comments: 37
Kudos: 82





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork and inspiration from @a.strange.zombie on IG / strangiesart on tumblr.
> 
> Writing by me, @themaggotdad on IG / vivisextion on tumblr. 
> 
> It isn't necessary to watch the movie to understand this, but it does add context.

**“DON’T YOU RUN AWAY FROM ME!”**

The masked man’s voice echoed down the rotting concrete hallway as Joey ran, all too conscious of the fact that his footsteps bounced off the walls, giving his position away. He turned a sharp corner and dashed across an open floor, weaving around the stone pillars, the graffiti on the walls blurring in the corners of his vision. 

**“DON’T YOU FUCKING - C’MERE BITCH!”**

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck… _ Joey cursed. There was no outrunning this man. There was no way he’d win in a fistfight, either, and he was pretty sure the man was armed. He had to hide.

Joey paused. This was clearly once a school of some sort, complete with the ghosts of students loitering in the corridors. He threw himself down some flights of stairs, and burst into what could only be a gutted gymnasium, broken equipment piled haphazardly against the walls. Which means somewhere there had to be -

A bang of a distant door slamming open against a wall. The man roared.

**“DON’T YOU FUCKING RUN AWAY FROM ME!”**

It jolted him into action. Joey tore across the length of the gym, shoving the doors open, rounding a corner and trying to find the locker rooms, because in the locker rooms...

_ Please be there, please don’t let them be thrown out -  _

Joey heaved a sigh of relief. They were rusted, and stank to high heaven from decades of dirty socks and sweaty sports gear, but there were lockers. He thanked whoever made him undersized, and crammed all five foot three inches of himself into a locker at random. Just as he quietly closed the door on himself, praying that it would not creak from age, he heard a yell.

**“DON’T MAKE ME FUCKING CHASE YOU DOWN!”**

Joey shoved himself as far back into the locker as he could, and had to stop himself whimpering in fear when the door to the locker room banged open with an almighty crack. He could hear his own blood pounding at breakneck pace in his own ears. Covering his nose and mouth with one hand, he watched through the slats in the locker door as the masked man stalked into the room.

_ If this is how I die, I’m gonna be real fucking pissed,  _ Joey thought to himself.

The man stormed throughout the locker rooms, checking the showers for his prey. Nothing. Joey heard a guttural shout of frustration.

_ Just go, just leave, just fuck off,  _ the drummer chanted in his head, eyes closed, and sure enough, eventually, he heard the sound of the man’s footsteps fade, as he left the room, the squeak of the door swinging on rusty hinges behind him. He dared not breathe a sigh of relief.

Joey waited. 15 minutes, an hour, half a day, he couldn’t tell. It was enough time for his heart rate to slow, and he slowly sucked in a breath of stale air. Finally, he was brave enough to push the locker door open. He tiptoed out, and peeked around the door to the locker rooms. Nobody. He crept down the hallway leading out to the gymnasium again. He couldn’t hear anything in the entire abandoned building, eerily silent as it was. Maybe the man had left.

Joey peered out the frosted, cracked glass window in the gymnasium doors, and couldn’t see anything. No motion, no human figures. Well then. He pushed them open gingerly, stepping into the gym, and tried to figure out how to find his way out of this decrepit maze. Maybe, he could try to retrace his steps and-

Two burly arms seized him out of nowhere. A large, dirty hand clapped a cloth over his face. Joey realised much too late that the fucker had been hiding behind the gym door all along, waiting for him. He screamed and kicked, but his attacker had him in a vice grip. It didn’t help that his vision was starting to spin. The dizzier he was, the harder it got to fight the man off, especially as his limbs were beginning to fail him. There was no escaping. The edges of his gaze were starting to go dark, but there was no room for panic while everything slowed to a halt.

The last thing he heard was a growl beside his ear. 

**“YOU WILL BE MINE.”**


	2. Day 1

Joey woke with a splitting headache, the likes of which he had not experienced before, despite his penchant for necking bottles of Jack. The first thing he noticed was that he was lying down. The next thing he noticed was that there was a firm presence beside him. Someone was stroking his hair, like when he was a child with the flu in bed and his mother would- 

He opened his eyes.

The man with the dreaded mask.

His eyes widened. He opened his mouth to scream.

“Don’t bother.”

The man held up a rag. The same rag that he’d used to knock him unconscious before. It must have been chloroform or something similar.

Fuck. 

It was dark, aside from the glare of a bedside lamp beside him. He realised then he was lying on a soft surface, and on further inspection, realised it was a bed, and that the weight of his captor was causing the mattress to sink down a little. 

“Don’t make me hurt you,” the man whispered.

 _Make you? I’m not fucking making you do anything,_ Joey wanted to retort, but it didn’t seem wise to talk back to his kidnapper. Especially not when the man had proved he could easily dominate him with physical force. He didn’t seem that much taller, but he was stocky, and had more bulk on him than Joey did.

The man raised a hand. Joey flinched, then hated himself for doing so. His nails were black, chipped, his fingers dirty, like he’d been working with his hands a lot, covered in grease like a mechanic. Joey had seen enough of that at his previous job to recognise it.

But the man did not hurt him. Instead, he traced a finger over Joey’s eyebrow piercings. Then, he trailed his hand through Joey’s red and black hair, lifted a lock of it to his face gently, and held it there, against his mask.

_Is he… Is he smelling…?_

The man let out a deep breath, exhaling heavily, and then let the strands of hair fall from his fingertips. And like a deer in headlights, Joey stared, eyes round in shock, too spooked to move, not even when the man got up from the bed.

His captor walked to the only heavy wooden door of the room they were in, hauling it open. 

“Wait!”

The masked man paused, and turned to look at Joey, who’d finally found the courage to speak. His profile was menacing in the dim light. 

“Wait, listen to me, I-”

And without a word, he exited, closing the door behind him, deaf to Joey’s protests.

* * *

It was impossible to sleep, in a situation like this. 

So. He’d been kidnapped. He had no clue why. Or by who. Anxiety crept into his mind, but he fought it down. Maybe he could figure out where he was. That might help.

Joey stood, looking around at bare concrete walls. The large room was windowless, clearly a basement by the looks of it. There was a bed in the corner, and in another, a toilet, with a sink next to it - and running water, Joey discovered. He washed his face, just for something to do. Then he opened the little medicine cabinet that sat over the sink. A toothbrush, toothpaste, even a hairbrush. No razor. He closed the cabinet door, gazing into its mirrored surface at himself. 

“Fuck,” he said aloud.

Beside the “bathroom” there was a sort of reading nook, with a battered armchair and a small coffee table before it. A short bookshelf sat against the wall. Joey wandered over to investigate it. There were old issues of guitar magazines, even a dog-eared copy of the standard drum textbook Stick Control that could have come out of Joey’s high school days. 

_This motherfucker knows what instruments I play?_

There was a chest of drawers beside the iron-framed bed as well, and Joey peered into each of them. There were clothes - old band shirts of varying kinds, but mostly the 80s flavour of rock and metal. There were jeans and cargo shorts too, which he could tell would be a little baggy on him.

Then he heard keys jangling, and panic flashed through him once more.

The door creaked open the smallest bit, and then Joey heard knocking. He backed away from it. The masked man had returned, and this time, he was bearing a tray of food.

“Hope you slept well,” the man mumbled.

For the first time, Joey was able to take in his appearance. He was wearing a faded black hoodie, with a thick navy overcoat over that, and stained, blue jeans that had been ripped at the knees, battered old white Adidas on his feet. His skin was painted black under the mask, too. 

Joey had never seen a mask like that before. It covered the man’s entire head, with leather straps securing it at the back. It was sickly bone white shade, except for the hollows around the eyes and mouth, which were black, giving him the impression of a skull. His pale blue eyes were so similar to Joey’s own, fixed on his captive, peering out from the dark recesses surrounding them. And from his head hung several dreads, wrapped in dirty twine, which swayed with every movement of his head. Altogether, it was quite intimidating.

On the tray, there was what looked like a standard breakfast - eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice. Joey realised he hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours, but the mere sight of it was turning his stomach. 

“What the hell, man? Who the fuck are you? And where am I?” Joey blurted out. 

The man did not answer, instead setting down the breakfast tray onto the coffee table, and saying in barely a mumble, “This is your room.”

“The fuck it is! You can’t do this!” 

“I don’t want to use force on you again,” the man in the mask told him.

“Let me the fuck out, or I swear to god-”

“There’s no use shouting either,” he continued, his voice still quite soft. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“I know,” spat Joey, despite everything. “I live in Iowa.”

“Then you know,” the man replied, finally turning his head to fix his empty stare on Joey, “that there’s no one around for miles to hear you.”

Fuck. He was right. Joey knew all too well the patches of desolate corn-ridden farmland that Iowa comprised of. 

“Well, what the fuck do you want with me? Money? I don’t know who you think I am, dude, but-”

“I know who you are,” murmured his captor, and it made Joey stop short. “You’re Joey Jordison. You work at Sinclair’s. You play in Modifidious and The Rejects.” The tiniest smile crept over his face. “I know a lot about you. More than you think.”

“How the fuck- Look, what the fuck do you _want?_ ” Joey shouted.

The man turned to go, shuffling towards the door again. Just before he left, he looked back at Joey.

“I hope those clothes fit. They’re kind of like what you wear most of the time.”

“Hang on, man, stop-”

But once again, the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him, leaving Joey in utter silence.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!” he screamed, and outside, the man in the mask smiled to himself, as he walked away.

* * *

The next time the man had come to bring his next meal, he discovered Joey had left his previous tray completely untouched. Joey didn’t trust him enough to put any of that in his stomach.

The man’s mask did not betray any expression on his face, but Joey thought he saw that black mouth pursed in disappointment as he set down a tray of soup and a sandwich, with a cup of coffee.

“Look,” Joey tried again. “Who are you? Why are you doing this? You went to all this trouble-” and he gestured to all the things that pertained to Joey’s musical interests. “-but why? You some kind of fuckin’ serial killer?”

The man turned his head sharply to glare at Joey. “I don’t want to kill you.”

“You wanna fuck me then? Is that it?” Joey demanded.

“It’s not that at all,” mumbled the masked man. “I’m not going to - I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“Then why the fuck am I in this goddamn basement?!”

“I want you to be mine,” the man in the mask whispered, determinedly staring at the floor instead of making eye contact with Joey, who could not believe what he was hearing.

“Okay, you know what, fuck this shit-”

-and Joey darted past his kidnapper, trying to make a break for the door, but the man seized him easily by his small waist, hauling him backwards. It wasn’t until Joey felt a strong hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing tight, choking him, that he stopped thrashing. 

“I’m sorry,” Joey heard the man say, and then he felt the man relax his grip, to let Joey gulp in breaths of air, but one thick arm was still firm around his middle. “I told you… I don’t want to hurt you.”

Joey froze. After a long pause, his captor released him, and continued.

“The first time I saw you, you were doing a show with Modifidious. You were so good on stage. I couldn’t stop watching. I found out you played in a couple bands. I’d go to see you play at gigs, all the time. I went to Sinclair’s too, once or twice. I... I wanted to know you. I decided I had to have you.”

 _Oh my fucking god,_ Joey thought. _This guy is nuts._

“Dude, you don’t have to fucking kidnap me! You could have just said hi!” 

“No,” the man breathed, a soft sigh. “It… it wouldn’t be enough.”

“This is insane, man. I have a gig on Saturday. My band mates, my family… people will notice I’m missing!” Joey argued.

“Oh, they’re looking for you…” said the man with a little smirk. “But nobody’s looking for me.”

Joey simply stared in shock. Shit. Iowa was big, with acres of deserted farmland. It could be months, years before anyone found him.

“How… how long do you want to keep me here? You can’t just lock me in here forever.”

The man did not reply at first, turning away from him, but Joey heard the man mutter something under his breath.

“I can’t. I can’t let you go.”

“Then…” Joey cast around, for some desperate leverage, and finally threatened, “then I’ll fucking kill myself.”

Now, now the man’s head shot up, and he was looking up at Joey, meeting his gaze, his eyes round with worry. 

“Don’t,” the man pleaded.

"You want me so bad?” Joey insisted. “You can have my dead fuckin’ body!”

There was a long moment of silence, and finally, his kidnapper relented with a sigh.

“You can go... but only on certain conditions.” 

“Yeah?” Joey felt a little more daring, since the man had caved in to his request like that. “What conditions?”

“You gotta eat,” the man said, voice gentle with concern. “No killing yourself. And… it would be nice if you talked to me.”

“And then? When do I get to leave?” 

“In six weeks.”

“SIX FUCKING WEEKS?” Joey shouted, incredulous. 

“Otherwise it wouldn’t be enough time,” the man murmured quietly, still avoiding his gaze. “To… to get to know you. I promise. You can go after that. I’m not gonna stop you.”

Joey glared at him. “Four weeks.”

A large, stupid grin slid across the man’s face. “Deal.”

“And then I get to bounce?”

The man bowed his head, as if in defeat. “Yeah.”

“Okay, fine.” Joey conceded. “But I got conditions too.”

The man retrieved a notepad and a pen from the bookshelf, laid it beside the tray of food, and then pointed a finger at the bowl of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich. Joey took this to mean that he was to finish his food first before making any demands. 

Resigned to his fate, he picked up the sandwich, dunked it in his soup as he normally would, and began to eat, as the man in the mask sat on the floor beside him, staring in fascination, watching him. 


	3. Day 8

True to his word, a week later, his captor brought along with him something that would alleviate his boredom at least - a practice pad and some nylon-tipped sticks. It was a good thing too, since Joey had gone through all of the guitar magazines at least twice. If he was going to be stuck in here for a month, he could at least work on his rudiments. 

Sometimes, the man would even stay after delivering his meals, just to watch him. After bringing him dinner, Eight had milled about, and Joey wasn’t really in any position to order him to leave. Joey sat on the edge of the armchair, tapping his foot to keep time as his hands worked furiously, the next best thing to a metronome since he didn’t have one. The man was staring, mesmerised by the motion of the drumsticks, head tilted to one side, as Joey tried to break his current speed limit on triple paradiddles.

“So uh…” Joey attempted, trying to make conversation out of sheer boredom. “What’s your name?”

“Eight,” was the soft reply, barely audible over the tapping of drumsticks.

“What, like the number?”

The man nodded. Joey figured the guy wasn’t dumb enough to give him his real name, and left it at that.

“Well uh, you know what I play, so uh… you play anything?”

“Guitar,” Eight admitted, almost reluctantly. “Kinda.”

“Huh.” So he was a musical type too. Joey figured he must be, if he had come to see his bands play. “Cool, so... favourite bands?”

Joey was used to being the talkative one, but damn, was this dude making him work for the conversation. Making him talk about metal turned out to be the right strategy, though. His tastes ran along the same classic heavy metal lines like Joey’s, things like Metallica, Priest, Maiden, and Pantera. That kept Eight talking far more than Joey had ever heard, as they debated each band’s best albums. Eight came out of his shell a little as they chatted, albeit in his own soft-spoken manner. It felt like they were just shooting the shit, and it was almost possible to forget Joey was being held here against his will. Joey had trouble reconciling this reserved, shy figure with the nightmare apparition chasing him down in an abandoned building not too long ago.

“I’ll get the CD player you wanted,” Eight promised. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Get some fucking Morbid Angel, man. You won’t regret it,” Joey insisted. At least it would give him something interesting to drum along to.

For a minute or so, only the rapidfire staccato beats from Joey’s practice pad filled the room. Then Eight spoke up.

“If you uh… wanna shower upstairs, I can let you.”

Joey’s sticks screeched to a halt, hanging in mid-air.

“You mean it? I mean… I could fucking use one, man.”

Eight nodded. “You gotta promise you won’t try to escape though.”

“Sure, whatever, just get me to this shower, I fucking stink.”

Joey stood, collecting a change of clothes, and when he turned around, Eight was pulling a set of handcuffs from his coat.

“Oh, come on, dude,” Joey groaned. “Really?”

Eight took Joey’s clean clothes from him, tucking it carefully under his arm. “I have to.”

The drummer rolled his eyes, and stuck his forearms out. But Eight had other ideas, tugging Joey’s hands behind his back. Joey heard the sickening click of the handcuffs closing in on his wrists. Then Eight opened the door of the basement, and led Joey into the living room.

It was the first time he’d seen the rest of the house. It was furnished in a very 70’s fashion, like the house had been inherited from a spinster aunt. Joey looked out the living room window, and saw dusk cloaking the wilderness outside. He lingered for a moment, staring at the only shreds of daylight he’d seen in ages. Then Eight led him up some rickety wooden stairs to a bathroom, and then unlocked his handcuffs.

“Take as long as you want,” he said, before shutting the bathroom door after himself. Joey watched through a crack in the door, as his guard took up his post at a nearby wooden chair, keeping an careful eye on him.

There was shampoo, conditioner, and a bar of soap, waiting by the shower for him. Good. His hair was getting greasy. Joey checked the windows, but they were bolted shut - from the outside. Nothing useful in the medicine cabinets either. He stepped into the spray of hot water, a luxury Joey would never take for granted again, as he scrubbed shampoo into his scalp.

As far as kidnappers went, Eight had been pretty nice to him. He brought him meals, even letting Joey make certain requests every now and then. He brought him entertainment, in the form of back issues of Kerrang! magazine. He’d even gotten him that practice pad he asked for, down to the specific type of Promark sticks he’d wanted. Joey was well aware a lot worse could have happened to him by now. He hadn’t been tortured and raped and left for dead, for example. Eight was no Jeffrey Dahmer, or at least Joey fucking hoped so.

Suddenly, over the sound of the running water, Joey heard a doorbell chime. He turned the tap off.

And then he screamed. 

He yelled for help at the top of his lungs. Eight came barging in, hauling Joey out of the shower. Joey put up a mighty struggle, despite being naked and wet, but his captor clapped one large hand over his mouth, silencing his cries. Eight managed to shove Joey’s (thankfully clean) balled-up underwear into his mouth as a makeshift gag, too. Joey’s small frame was slammed against the tiled wall, as Eight pinned his arms behind his back, handcuffing him to a set of pipes. Joey stared up at him, eyes wide with fright at Eight’s ominous expression, as the man loomed over Joey. His eyes had lost their soft, kind light, now narrowed and feral. He looked downright terrifying, almost inhuman.

 _Fuck,_ _he’s going to kill me now,_ Joey thought to himself. 

Eight put a finger to his lips, as the doorbell went off again. He ignored it, all his attention fixed on his prisoner. Joey could not help but notice the masked man glance down at his nude body, and felt Eight’s heavy breath against his bare skin as he exhaled. Eight blinked very slowly, as if in a daze. Then he retrieved a towel, wrapping it around Joey’s waist, as though he could not stand the sight of Joey unclothed before him.

Eventually, whoever it was at the door - presumably nosy Jehovah’s Witnesses or pesky door-to-door salesmen - gave up and went away. Eight reached up, removing the gag from Joey’s mouth and uncuffing him with careful hands. Joey thought he was doomed for sure, that his kidnapper would punish him somehow. But Eight said nothing, which was possibly even scarier. Strangest of all, Eight turned and left the bathroom, to let him finish his shower.

Joey emerged with wet hair, rubbing at it with the towel, in a clean KISS shirt and shorts. Eight was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, and he padded down them, filled with trepidation. The handcuffs jingled as Eight pulled them from his coat pocket once more.

“Could you, uh... do it in front this time?” Joey asked, hesitant. He knew he was in no position to make demands after the stunt he pulled. “It kinda hurts my arms the other way.”

To his surprise, Eight acquiesced without a word, when Joey held his arms out before him, and even took the bundle of dirty clothes from him. 

“Wanna show you something,” Eight mumbled, as his large hand gripped Joey’s bicep, firm but still gentle. Joey followed him, not that he had much of a choice, into a small room off to one side.

“No hard feelings, huh?” Joey joked, trying to ease the tension between them. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” But Eight seemed to ignore him.

Joey was led into a room, filled with shelves and odd shadows, and he desperately hoped that Eight wasn’t about to butcher him in here. But as the lights flicked on, he realised that the shelves were filled with dead animals. Some taxidermied, some whose skeletons were mounted, and even some preserved in jars. Joey peered at the nearest one, despite himself. There appeared to be a crow in it. 

Joey stared around the room, not entirely sure what to make of this. Eight stood in the middle of it, head bowed, watching Joey out of the corner of his eye, as though waiting for him to react. Joey noticed he was tugging at one of his dreads, picking at the fraying ends.

“Um,” Joey tried. “Nice collection.”

Eight shuffled from one foot to the other, then stammered, “I-it’s my hobby.” 

Joey wandered over to a particular skeleton, and thought he recognised the shape of its skull. “Is that…”

“It’s a cat, yeah.” Eight nodded, then added with a timid whisper, “I know you like cats.”

Joey spun around, trying to fight the rising sense of horror in his gut. “Did you-”

“No!” Eight’s eyes widened, waving outstretched hands in defense. “Of course not. I didn’t kill any of these. I just… find them. And then I put them back together.”

 _I mean, who am I to judge, really,_ Joey thought to himself. He had some strange hobbies of his own. 

“Wow. That’s… pretty cool, not gonna lie,” Joey admitted, partly as a show of goodwill. He caught himself admiring the skill it took to assemble a whole skeleton. It did look like really tricky work, and must have taken hours to put together. Joey told Eight so, which had him stuttering worse as he started wringing his hands together. 

“What’s this one?” Joey asked, out of curiosity, as he began to study the display next to it.

“A raccoon. I found it in a ditch at the side of a road.”

“And that one?”

“8 month old puppy. It was my neighbour’s. It ran away.”

They played this guessing game for a bit, as Joey attempted to figure out what the various animal skeletons had been in life. Finally, he asked, “How do you do it?”

Eight seemed a little taken aback, as though he hadn’t expected Joey to ask any questions. 

“First you gotta, um, take all the skin and flesh off. You can use beetles, or maggots...”

Joey listened, examining all the other specimens in Eight’s morbid collection as the masked man described the arduous process. It sounded like it took weeks. He could not help but come away with actual respect for the man’s patience.

“So uh, am I going to end up in here?” Joey quipped, only half-jokingly. 

Eight finally raised his head, looking Joey in the eye, his gaze unblinking and inscrutable.

“That depends.”

* * *

Eight led him back into his basement, one cautious hand on Joey’s shoulder. Joey sat on the bed, with his warden beside him, as Eight freed his hands again. Instead of getting up to leave, however, Eight continued to sit with him, head bowed in awkward silence. Joey did not dare say a word, sensing a tension in the masked man. 

So still his companion was, that it almost startled him when Eight turned his head to look at Joey at last. Eight raised one hand, dragging his fingertips through the lengths of Joey’s wet hair. Joey sat, frozen in shock, unsure what to do.

Eight toyed with a lock of Joey’s hair, as he had done the night he acquired his captive, staring at the dual-toned strands in fascination. Slowly, he slid his hand further up into the smaller man’s hair, until his hand cupped Joey’s cheek, his thumb brushing over it just once. Eight leaned in closer, and Joey fought the urge to recoil.

“Please don’t try to escape again,” Eight whispered, his tone almost plaintive. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Joey, for once, was at a loss for words. He didn’t need to respond, however, as Eight let go of him, and promptly marched out of the room. 

“What the fuck?” he murmured to himself. The way Eight had leaned into his space just now, it had almost looked like he was trying to… well. Joey shook his head. Ridiculous. Probably best not to think about it.

Later that night, though, as he tossed and turned in his bed, it was hard not to. 


	4. Day 27

The utter boredom was the hardest to deal with, for someone like him. Joey had gone through Stick Control at least fifty times by now, near the end of his captivity. Eight had brought him an old CD player too, a huge outdated thing the size of a boombox, from the early 90s. He kept it on day and night, trying to preserve his sanity with his favourite albums on loop. 

One of the few things that broke the monotony was the soft sounds of an acoustic guitar that would filter down through the floorboards now and then. His captor must be playing it. Joey would sit by the door of his cell, his ear pressed to it. He tried to work out what song Eight was playing, but it sounded experimental and random, not a tune he recognised. 

The isolation was beginning to get to him, and sometimes he would even look forward to Eight’s company when he came to bring Joey’s meals, just for someone to talk to. Once again, Eight was watching him eat like he was the world’s most interesting nature documentary, after bringing him breakfast (pancakes with maple syrup and a large pat of butter).

“I heard you,” Joey said. “Upstairs. Noodling around on an acoustic.”

“Oh,” Eight breathed. He turned away, too shy to look Joey in the eye. “It’s nothing much.”

“Nah, man, it’s cool.” Joey waved a careless hand. “You trying to write stuff?” 

“Little bit,” Eight conceded. “I’m not great.”

“We all gotta start somewhere,” Joey replied, through a mouthful of pancake. Then a thought occurred to him. “Hey, would it be cool if I played it for a bit?”

Eight seemed to balk a little at the suggestion, but Joey quickly added, “You can watch me, I’m not gonna use it to hurt myself.”

Finally, his captor relented. He took Joey’s empty plate away, and returned with a beat up old acoustic guitar that had seen better days, but it sounded decent enough. At least it was tuned.

It felt good to be able to play the guitar once again, even though his fingers were a little rusty with disuse. After a few minutes though, when he’d warmed up, he was churning out familiar riffs. Eight was openly gawking now, and his jaw dropped even further when Joey decided to see if he could remember the intro to Master of Puppets. 

“Huh.” Joey smiled, pleased with himself, when he’d managed to play it at just about the right tempo. “Still got it.” 

He looked up and Eight was gazing at him in undisguised awe, eyes wide and barely blinking. 

“How in the Hell…” Eight gestured to Joey’s hands. 

“What, the um, downpicking?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s stupid fast.”

“I mean, it’s just practice, dude. Start slower, get it consistent, keep speeding up. Same with drums. Rinse and repeat until you hit the roof.” Joey shrugged. “I mean, that one’s a pain in the ass, though, it’s all downpicking  _ and  _ jumping between strings. Like, for the whole song, pretty much.”

“That’s insane,” muttered Eight.

“Tell me about it,” scoffed Joey. “I mean, there is one other thing you can do to get a wrist like Hetfield’s.”

Eight glanced up at Joey, head tilted. “What’s that?”

Joey shot his companion a cheeky grin. “Jerk off a lot.”

Eight stared at him in stunned silence for a second. Then, for the first time, Joey heard Eight laugh. He let out a great, deep belly laugh, almost falling backwards. 

“See, we could’ve totally hung out together,” Joey pointed out, trying to be friendly. But Eight seemed to tense at the idea. The atmosphere in the room suddenly strained. 

“I’m just saying, man, we could’ve been friends outside of here,” he continued uneasily, over his fidgety finger plucking, just for something to do with his hands. 

Eight shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?” 

“I’m not… normal.” The man in the mask fidgeted, toying with one frayed dread. “Like you are.”

“I wouldn’t really call myself normal, dude.”

“I mean…” Eight let out a frustrated sigh. “You have friends. I don’t know how to… be human, like you do.”

The guy wasn’t wrong. His social skills did seem extremely lacking. Joey huffed. “I can see that. People don’t exactly make friends by kidnapping other people.”

An awkward silence ensued. Joey regretted his comment, even if it was true. He didn’t want to hurt his kidnapper’s feelings, which was funny in a fucked up way to him.

“You wouldn’t have liked me,” Eight muttered, sounding more than a little dejected. “I’m a freak.”

“Dude, I wear women’s clothing on stage half the time. And maybe not on stage sometimes.” Joey cleared his throat. Eight let his dread fall from his fingers and eyed Joey with renewed interest. “I’m just saying, I’m not judging anyone else for being weird.”

“I like that about you,” Eight murmured, still not taking his gaze off his captive. “I’m glad I chose you.”

Joey blinked. “I still don’t get why, though.” The masked man tilted his head in confusion. “I mean, why’d you choose me? Out of all the people in Iowa?”

Eight tried to speak, but the words seem to catch in his throat. “You’re… you’re special,” he managed to stutter.

Joey scoffed. “No I’m not.”

“You are to me,” his companion replied, in a soft voice.

“But why?” Joey pressed. 

“You… you’re very talented.” Eight offered. “Um. Musically.” 

“Dude, I’m pretty sure there’s other people in this town who can play drums and guitar.”

Eight sighed, a lovesick noise. “Not like you.”

Joey pretended not to notice and carried on strumming. “Must be your type, I guess.”

Eight was deeply occupied with staring at the floor all of a sudden, despite the fact that he’d only had eyes for Joey since coming into the room.

“You could say that.”

Joey rolled his eyes. “You could have just bought me a drink after a gig or something, you know.”

“Would you, uh… would you have said yes?” Eight asked, hesitantly, as he fiddled with the rings on his fingers.

The drummer let out a chuckle. “Depends what you look like under there.”

Eight hung his head, as though in shame. “I can’t show you.”

Joey nodded. He didn’t want to see what Eight actually looked like, either, as a long-lost statistic popped into his head. Something about hostages who had seen their kidnappers faces being far more likely to be killed. And he had no plans to be killed, not when his release date was so close.

“You know it’s tomorrow, right,” Joey pointed out. 

“I know,” his companion whispered, still refusing to look him in the eye.

“You said. I get to go home.”

**“THIS IS YOUR HOME!”** Eight shouted, and Joey nearly dropped his pick in fright. 

After a long, dead pause, he spoke again. 

“I’m sorry,” Eight continued, his voice cracking, as he stood to go. 

Joey did not take his eyes off the man in the mask, more than a little fearful. Not even when he’d tried to escape had he seen his captor lose his temper, at least during his stay in the house. Eight pulled his guitar out of Joey’s hands and stood to leave. He yanked the door to the basement open, but then stopped, finally looking up at Joey, his eyes dark, his stare hollow. 

“I don’t think we would have ever become friends, outside there,” Eight told him, before slamming the door shut.


	5. Day 28

The day of his release, Joey sat in the clothes he’d been brought into this house with, his feet drumming restlessly on the concrete floor. Eight had washed his beloved Mayhem shirt, and brought his original clothes back in a neat stack along with his dinner meal last night, quite apologetic for his earlier outburst. Joey didn’t think he’d ever see it again, or that he’d get so emotional over being reunited with a band shirt. After all, it was one of the few things that belonged to him in this house. 

He was so nervous, so wired, about to vibrate out of his skin. Eight hadn’t said when he’d be allowed to go, and it was getting late. 

Quiet knocking at the door. Joey jumped. Eight entered, hands clasped in front of him, fidgeting with his rings.

“It’s your last night… I made spaghetti and meatballs. You wanna?” 

“Uh… sure. I could eat.” Joey almost smiled. Lunch had been light and a long time ago. He approached Eight, hands outstretched, as was their usual procedure for going upstairs. 

“Um… you don’t need to…” Eight stammered. Joey blinked round, blue eyes in surprise. 

“Oh! Uh. Thanks.” 

Hands unfettered, he walked out of the basement for the first time on his own, heading into the kitchen. It was a quaint little space - linoleum floor, an old-fashioned gas stove, a wall-mounted corded phone. It reminded him of his grandparents’ house. He spied a tiny table with two chairs along the far side, which had been laid for them already. A bottle of Jack sat in the middle, along with a can of Coke. Joey laughed. He’d forgotten that he’d once jokingly asked Eight for a drink, and Eight had asked what his poison was.

“Wow. I’m surprised you remember.” 

“I remember everything you tell me,” Eight replied, very serious, watching Joey a little too intently. Joey looked away, clearing his throat.

“You know, you don’t have to worry about me snitching to the cops on you, since I don’t even know what you look like, or where I am,” Joey reminded his captor, who was pouring him a drink. 

“I know,” was Eight’s quiet answer, as he watched Joey sip his drink and wander around the kitchen. 

“You could just drop me off at the edge of town, you know. Probably safer for you. I could just walk from there and…” Joey trailed off, as his eye caught something familiar. A stark black and white band flyer was taped to the fridge. And on the back of it…

…his own signature.

“The fuck…” Joey plucked it off the fridge, for a closer look. It was a flyer for a Modifidious gig months ago, at a tiny hole-in-the-wall club. On the other side, in black sharpie, was his own name, the way he always signed it. 

“Be careful with that!” Eight cried, his voice panic-stricken, snatching the piece of paper back and holding it to his chest. 

Joey’s jaw dropped. He gasped.

“Wait a minute. I know you!” 

Joey remembered that night now. The gig itself had been uneventful, but afterwards, a young man with long, dirty blonde hair had come up to him, asking him to sign the flyer. He distinctly recalled how weird it had been, considering Modifidious wasn’t that famous in their local area. The guy had been covered in tattoos, and was too shy to even look Joey in the face for long, never making eye contact for more than a few seconds. Puzzled, he’d agreed and autographed it without any further thought, and then carried on with his life.

“You’re the guy that asked me to sign this!” The drummer gaped. Then his stomach dropped into his ass. Shit. He’d just recognised his kidnapper. Would Eight ever let him go now?

“Don’t worry,” Joey assured him quickly. “I couldn’t pick you out of a lineup. That was ages ago. Plus, I got so fuckin’ trashed that night. I don’t remember anything, dude.”

Eight stood, still as stone, clutching the flyer to him like a child would protect a teddy bear, and in that moment, Joey knew he was fucked. Eight had never meant to let him go after all. His eyes darted to the back door in the kitchen. He was closer to it. Now or never. 

_Fuck it._

He bolted for the door, throwing it open and charging out into the overgrown, dilapidated back yard. The cool night air rushed into his lungs for the first time in a month. The property was so remote that there were no fences, because there were no neighbours to keep out. Joey ran, fueled by adrenaline, as he heard a roar from behind him. 

He’d made it halfway across the back yard when Eight tackled him to the ground, wrestling him into submission easily. Two strong arms grabbed hold of him, and dragged him, kicking and screaming, back into the house. His heels scrabbled uselessly against the linoleum floor of the kitchen, as Eight held him in a headlock, and then pressed a cloth to his mouth. 

**“YOU BELONG TO ME,”** Eight snarled, and soon, it became harder and harder to kick and scream, and Joey’s vision faded to black. 

* * *

_Asleep in his arms._

_He never got to watch his... friend sleep._

_He picked him up. Bridal style. It was so easy. His frame was so little, and he fit in his arms so perfectly. As if… as if he was meant to._

_He carried the sleeping man down the stairs, to his room. He’d set it up the way he thought his friend might like it. Put things in it he would enjoy. Even the bed was similar to the one in his friend’s house. He thought it might help._

_Carefully, he laid him on bed, left unmade. He tucked the blankets around the sleeping figure. He dared to sit beside him. He fought with himself for a long minute. But he had to check._

_It was no trouble to prop the smaller man against his chest. It felt like a drowsy hug from his friend. He pushed the thought out of his mind. He had work to do. Slowly, he eased the shirt up, and over his head._

_He sucked in a harsh breath._

_No bruises or wounds, luckily. The man’s skin was pure and unmarked in a way that made his teeth ache._

_He held the tiny figure to him. His fingers ran around that perfectly formed skull. They came away clean. He exhaled, hard. He was afraid he’d caused a blow to his friend’s head. He didn’t like to think what would happen if he had._

_He was mad, so mad at himself. What had he done wrong? He must have done something. After all this time… he’d thought, maybe, just maybe…_

_He sighed, chin resting against the smaller man’s shoulder. Then he laid him back down, gently as he could. He pulled back._

_Just looking at him made the breath catch in his throat. Joey was so pale, so beautiful. So endlessly fascinating. He wanted to watch him forever._

_He lay down beside him, not taking his eyes off Joey. He slid an arm around a small waist, tugging his lifeless body near, and held him to his chest._

_He was so perfect. He was so close._

_He nuzzled the top of Joey’s head, pressing a kiss to his smooth hair. His dirty fingers trailed through silky red and black strands._

_He nudged his mouth against the sleeping man’s jaw, unsure. But the way the ridges of his gorgeous collarbones felt under his ringed fingers was enough to convince him._

_If this was all he could have, he’d take it._

_He traced his fingertips over every one of his graceful ribs. Then he drifted his hand over where long, dark hair cascaded over Joey’s back, petting his spine, memorising the feel of each little knob of vertebrae as he went._

_Then he stopped._

_Deep breath._

_Hesitant, he let his fingers dip just below the waistband of the shorts, just so he could feel the pretty curve of his hipbone. Nothing more. It wouldn’t have been right._

_It wasn’t right._

_It wasn’t real._

_He stopped, closing his eyes tight._

_He’d nearly lost him. The thought of it hurt so much. He let out a small sob._

_“I love you,” he told Joey._

_Then he hugged Joey to him again, and wept._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eight totally kept Joey's Mayhem shirt to smell this entire time.


	6. Day 29

Joey blinked, so groggy he could barely lift his head. There it was again, that same splitting headache that had first welcomed him into this house, so long ago. A blanket had been draped over him. He turned his head, and jumped.

Eight was sitting beside his prone form on the bed. It was dim, the light of the bedside lamp casting shadows on his face. His eyes looked even eerier in the dark within their deep sockets.

“I didn’t want to do that.” Eight spoke, quiet as ever. “But you left me no choice.”

“It’s been a month,” croaked Joey, trying to think through the fog of pain in his skull. “You said… you said you’d let me go. You can’t-”

Eight’s eyes narrowed, looking catlike in the dark. “I can do what I want.”

“You fucking asshole-” 

Joey tried to sit up, but the nausea in his belly forced him back down again. He sucked in several deep breaths, waiting for it to subside. Eight was watching him with undisguised concern. 

“Don’t you see?” murmured Eight, brushing a stray lock of hair away from Joey’s face, tucking it behind his ear. “I can’t let you go. You’re mine.”

Joey ignored him, staring at the ceiling. _Fuck,_ he thought. _I’m never getting out of here alive, am I._

He closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry. His captor, as if attempting to comfort him, reached out a shaky hand, trying to take Joey’s in his.

“Please, just let me… just let me hold your hand.”

No response.

“I promise I won’t-”

But before Eight could finish his sentence, Joey had turned his back on Eight, facing the wall, a clear sign that he wanted to be left alone.

* * *

While he was unconscious, Eight had taken away everything he could possibly have harmed himself with, including the fitted bedsheets and all of the clothes in the chest of drawers. At least the mattress seemed clean. 

The morning after their fight, Eight had brought Joey’s favourite breakfast (bacon and eggs, scrambled, with orange juice). He hadn’t delivered it personally, though. There had been a demure knock at the door, and when Joey opened it, the tray of food sat on the floor, and next to it, a little pile of drugstore makeup. It was the typical goth essentials Joey preferred to wear on stage - black eyeliner, even a small palette of black, white and grey eyeshadow. Joey glanced up, and caught a glimpse of Eight peeking at him from behind the door to the kitchen, who immediately retreated when he’d been spotted. Eight must have been really sorry. 

Best of all, Eight had left him the CD player, the practice pad and the drumsticks. Joey picked a stick up, a half-baked idea forming in his head. It involved the end of one of his sticks and a rough patch of concrete by the toilet.

He walked over, popped in _De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas_ , and got to work. Joey figured that the more death metal-oriented albums provided the best cover for when he was crouched next to the toilet, busy sharpening the end of one of his drumsticks on the floor. He’d managed to prise one of the nylon tips off, so that he could file it down like a prison shank. Just before his captor would return with his meals, he could pop the nylon tip back on, so that it looked no different to the untrained eye. It was a good thing Eight seemed more withdrawn than usual, and didn’t remain in Joey’s company like he used to, leaving Joey more time to work on his plan.

Now he just needed to get Eight down here.

At least Eight was still letting him out to shower, keeping guard outside like he always did. Joey wrapped the makeup in the bundle of fresh clothes Eight had left outside his door that day, and took it with him into the bathroom. 

He walked over to the little mirrored cabinet above the sink, and stared at himself. The dark circles around his eyes weren’t new, but somehow, he looked quite alien to himself. Time to fix that.

He uncapped the eyeliner pencil, and sighed. 

* * *

When he finally emerged, Eight was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, with the set of handcuffs. They hadn’t been speaking to each other much, but the sight of Joey in makeup rendered Eight speechless anyway.

“Um…” he stuttered. “Huh.”

“Do you like it?” Joey tucked his wet hair behind his ear, a little self-conscious. Eight was staring at him, eyes the size of dinner plates.

“Y-yeah. Looks good.”

Joey presented his wrists, since he’d lost no-handcuffs privileges after his escape attempt. Eight was about to restrain him when Joey asked, “Can we just… sit in the living room for a bit?”

Eight hesitated.

“I don’t want to go back in right away.” Joey sighed. “I just need some air.”

His captor relented, but cuffed him anyway. Fair enough. 

“You know, I never got to finish that Jack and Coke,” Joey joked as Eight led him into the living room, and he settled in one of the moth-eaten armchairs. 

Eight, his impenetrable gaze still fixed on Joey, paused for a long moment. Joey thought he’d pushed his luck too far, but then Eight said, “Stay there,” and disappeared into the kitchen. Sure enough, he re-emerged with a Jack and Coke. Joey all but chugged it. It tasted familiar, and he’d needed it. 

“Jesus.” Eight snorted. “Slow down.” But he fixed Joey another anyway, this time coming back with a beer for himself, placing the drink in Joey’s manacled grasp.

Joey sank back in the armchair and closed his eyes, sighing as the alcohol burned in his throat, all too aware of how intently Eight was watching him. 

“Hey uh…” Joey began, uncertain. “I’m sorry.”

Eight tilted his head, puzzled.

“I shouldn’t have tried to run like that. I just… I got cabin fever, man,” Joey explained. “Going a little stir-crazy in here, you know?”

Eight only nodded mutely, downing his beer. 

Joey decided he’d savour his second drink, since he had no idea when it’d be until his next. Then he realised something, then chuckled to himself.

“Looks like you got me that drink after all.”

Now his captor was staring at him in disbelief. 

Joey took a deep breath, and summoned all the bravery he had.

“Answer’s yes, by the way.” 

He tried not to look at Eight, whose mouth was agape, his beer clean forgotten. He cleared his throat.

“I remember what you look like under there. You’re pretty cute.”

Eight was most definitely not meeting his gaze, now. He’d taken to staring at the worn patches in the rug in front of him. Joey decided to press his advantage.

“Have you ever like, been on a date?” Joey asked. Eight shook his head, still refusing to make eye contact.

“Kissed someone before?” 

Another headshake.

“Damn.” Joey blinked in surprise. To be fair, he couldn’t remember his own first kiss. Probably some teenage fumbling back in high school. Eight, however, turned his head away, as though in shame, and Joey instantly felt bad. 

“Oh… hey, I didn’t mean… It’s totally cool, if you haven’t,” he reassured the man in the mask. Then an idea popped into his head.

“I could uh… I could show you? If you want?” Joey suggested.

Eight’s head snapped up, fixing Joey with wide blue eyes. Joey couldn’t tell if he was terrified or excited. Either way, he decided to go all out. Setting his drink down on the coffee table, he crossed over to armchair Eight was in, and settled himself in the other man’s lap.

Eight dropped his beer on the floor. 

Joey heard the liquid glug out of the can as he slid his bound arms over Eight’s head, resting them on his broad shoulders. His heart was pounding in double time. 

“Um.” This was the closest he’d ever been to Eight. The prospect was unnerving. “Is this okay?”

“Y-yeah,” came Eight’s shaky, hoarse whisper.

“You uh… you touch my hair a lot,” Joey tried. “You like it?”

“A lot,” muttered Eight.

“You can if you want.”

Eight, still unable to look Joey in the eye, reached a hand up, brushing the backs of his fingers against the hair which had fallen across Joey’s face, tucking it behind his ear. Joey let him stroke his damp locks for a while. It was impossible to miss the sense of longing in his touch.

Then Joey dared to speak again.

“You um… you wanna kiss me?” 

They were so close. It was hard to talk in anything more than a whisper. It was like approaching a skittish forest creature, and Joey was trying not to spook him. The masked man was as timid as Joey had ever seen him. He watched as Eight closed his eyes, and pressed his painted-black lips to Joey’s cheek in a chaste kiss. 

“Not like that,” Joey teased. 

Joey leaned his head down, and nudged his mouth against Eight’s in a soft kiss. He heard a strangled noise, trapped in the other man’s throat, as Eight began to gently kiss him back. Joey gave Eight’s bottom lip a little nip before pulling away, slow and easy. Eight thunked his forehead against Joey’s shoulder, eyes closed tight, looking quite overwhelmed. 

“Could you uh… uncuff my hands?” Joey asked, quietly. He felt Eight nod his head, still pressed against him. Joey presented his wrists to Eight, who obliged, and the handcuffs dropped to the floor with a clink. Without a word, he took Eight’s hands in his and guided them around his small waist, allowing Eight to hold him close.

“This isn’t real,” Eight breathed. 

“I’m here,” Joey reminded him. “I’m real.” 

With trembling hands now free, Joey drifted his fingertips over the ridges of Eight’s bone white mask, who watched him, eyes wide almost in horror. He cupped both hands under Eight’s chin, tilting the other man’s face up towards him, kissing him deeper this time. Eight let out a moan of distress and desperation Joey felt more than heard, as Eight’s fingers clutched hard at his shirt. A moment later, Joey realised why. It was impossible to miss, given that Joey was right in Eight’s lap.

“That’s okay,” Joey told Eight, in a soothing tone. “Nothing wrong with it.” He shifted against Eight’s thighs. “Wow.” He let out a chuckle. “Didn’t realise you’d been hiding all that under there this whole time.”

Eight still seemed mortified, so Joey pressed his hands to the other man’s chest, and kissed him again, much less chaste now. Eight groaned into his mouth, trying not to rock his hips up against Joey, but Joey could feel him squirming. He let one hand creep down, brushing against the waistband of Eight’s jeans. 

All of a sudden, Eight tugged Joey away. His eyes were squeezed shut, like a child wishing a nightmare away. Joey froze, startled. Too far?

“Stop,” Eight gasped. “You don’t… don’t have to.”

“You’ve been really nice to me,” was Joey’s halting response. “I just wanted to do something nice for you, too.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t…” Eight whispered. “I… I don’t want to hurt you.” His tone was broken, pleading, and Joey was confused. He reached out to touch Eight’s face.

“You’re not going to-”

Eight caught Joey’s wrist, glaring at him. His eyes were dark, his expression forbidding. Then he stood suddenly, grabbing Joey and hauling him over his shoulder. Eight stormed out of the living room with his captive, charging almost blindly down the stairs.

“Hey! Put me down!” Joey yelled.

Eight threw the door to the basement open so hard that it banged against the wall with a sickening crunch, marching over to the bed and throwing Joey down on the bare mattress.

Joey sat up and tossed the hair out of his face. “What the Hell, man?!”

“It’s for your own good!” Eight cried, turning to go, faltering by the door, white-knuckled grip on the frame. His chest was heaving with laboured breaths.

“I told you,” he said, voice almost breaking. “I can’t… I’m sorry…”

Now was Joey’s chance. He inched his fingers under his pillow. They closed in on his drumstick-shank. Swift and silent, he snuck up behind Eight, and stabbed the sharp, pointed end of the stick as hard as he could into the side of Eight’s neck.

Eight screamed, bloodcurdling, ringing in Joey’s ears with how loud it was, echoing against the basement walls. Blood gushed out of the wound, far more than Joey had ever expected, splattering him in the face. The stick was buried so deep in the side of his kidnapper’s neck. Eight clutched at it uselessly, as he fell forward onto his knees, howling in rage and grief.

Joey backed away, shaking, until he hit the bookcase on the far wall. He looked back at it. The old CD player sat on the top shelf. He glanced back at the man he’d injured. Eight was on the floor, bleeding out profusely, groaning in pain, growing weaker by the second. He lifted the heavy appliance, wet fingers slipping as he tried to hold it up high.

“I’m sorry,” Joey told Eight, as he slammed the CD player down on Eight’s head with a mighty crash. His captor collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Joey stared. He sucked in a deep breath. He wasn’t sure if the masked man was dead or not. 

He bolted out of the basement and slammed the door shut.

_Fuck. What do I do now?_

He didn’t dare touch Eight’s body to look for the basement door key. The most logical thing he could think of was to shove every piece of furniture in the living room against the door. He pushed the armchairs down the stairs, the coffee table, even the old TV set, just in case.

Then he scrambled to the kitchen where he’d seen the wall-mounted phone, and called 911, sobbing with relief.


	7. Epilogue

“You sure did a number on him,” the prison guard said, by way of conversation, as his and Joey’s footsteps echoed down the corridor. “No idea how he’s still alive. If you ask me, it’s that big ol’ Christmas ham of a neck he’s got.”

Joey said nothing, as the guard ushered him into a visitation room. The panel of glass that divided the room in half only made him feel marginally safer. The guard disappeared then, leaving him to his thoughts. His feet tapped against the dirty tiles as he bounced his leg up and down, biting his black polished nails.

_Why am I here?_

His mother had pleaded with him not to go. His bandmates told him he was crazy. But he had to know.

Joey jumped when the metal door on the other side of the glass divider opened. He gulped, taking a deep breath, as the man who’d held him captive for over a month sat opposite him, and the guard uncuffed his manacles. 

Corey - as Joey later found out - looked so different. So ordinary, without that cadaverous mask of his. He was a little thinner than Joey remembered, his prison jumpsuit hanging loosely off his frame. Or perhaps that was because he’d always worn so many layers around him, giving him the illusion of bulk. 

His hair, which had been long and wavy during their first chance encounter, had been sheared short, cropped close to his head. Without it, it was easy to see the ugly old wound on his neck, where Joey had punctured it. It had since healed over, the angry red scar tissue a vivid reminder. 

Joey barely recognised him. But the man’s demeanor was unmistakable. 

Corey picked up the wall-mounted phone, and so did Joey, willing his fingers not to shake.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” mumbled Corey, not daring to meet Joey’s gaze. Corey had always been shy in his presence, almost more so without his mask to hide behind.

“Why, um… Why did you come to see me?” Corey asked, fiddling with his fingers, where Joey knew his rings used to be.

It was hard to say the things he wanted to, face to face with the man who’d held him against his will. But he needed to know. 

“I want to know why,” Joey replied, trying to keep his cool. 

The question had been burning in Joey’s mind ever since the day he’d been kidnapped. He had never gotten a satisfactory answer from his captor.

Corey finally glanced up at Joey for a brief moment, and Joey saw the haunted look in his eyes. “I couldn’t help myself. I can’t explain why. I just wanted you so bad, and I... I had to have you.” He groaned, deep and heavy, covering his face with his hands. “I know what I did was wrong. And I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t really the closure he’d expected. But it was as good as any. Perhaps there were no real answers to his questions.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Eight breathed. “I would’ve never forgiven myself if I’d hurt you.”

“Even though I stabbed you in the neck?” Joey asked, his tone incredulous.

“I survived." Eight shrugged. “They told me if I’d yanked that stick out, I’d be dead. Either way, you did what you had to do, to… to save yourself.” He hung his head in shame. “From me.”

“Well, for what it’s worth…” Joey sighed. “I’m glad I didn’t actually kill you.”

Corey smiled, mostly to himself. “I appreciate it.” 

He raised his head at last, fixing his unblinking gaze on Joey. Then he let out a dreamy sigh, and admitted shyly, “It’s lonely in here without you.” 

Joey blinked, averting his eyes. Dread was creeping into the pit of his stomach.

He watched as Corey raised a hand, touching his fingertips to the glass, just over where Joey’s face was, in a light caress. The vacant smile hadn’t left his face. Now, however, there was that same forbidding hollowness in his stare Joey had witnessed before. 

“I wish we’d had more time together,” Corey whispered, sounding so vulnerable, his voice full of longing.

Joey froze.

“I have to go,” Joey muttered, abruptly slamming the phone back into its cradle. 

He stood, and the screech of the chair scraping back against the tiles was deafening in the tiny room. He heard the clatter of the guard shackling the prisoner’s arms behind his back, as he made to leave.

Joey glanced back. 

He instantly wished he hadn’t.

Behind the glass, Eight mouthed the words, clear as day, _YOU WILL BE MINE._


End file.
